


How She Told Him (She Didn't)

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Road to Home [5]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, F/M, Ficlet, Funny, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 03:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only two of them know that Donna's expecting. Unfortunately, it's the wrong two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How She Told Him (She Didn't)

“Ooh, Sweetheart!” Donna exclaimed, wrinkling her nose in disgust as she withdrew from her good morning peck on John’s cheek. “Did you leave that t-shirt in the wash too long?”

John looked down his front. “What’s this, now?”

Donna’s face was still screwed up in revulsion and she leaned her face away from him. “I don’t know, but you stink! I thought your clothes must be sour from being left too long.”

“Do I?” John’s face creased with mild puzzlement.

Sherlock was leaned against the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil. Discreetly, he leaned his head toward John and his nostrils flared as he inhaled. He caught Donna’s eye and shook his head. John, fussing with a frying pan and a knob of butter, did not notice the exchange going on behind his back.

Donna looked questioning. Sherlock shook his head again, firmly, and mouthed, _It’s just. You._

“Nevermind,” Donna said casually. “Maybe it’s me.” She lifted the floppy lapel of her bathrobe to her face, inhaled exaggeratedly. “You’re fine.”

Sherlock was burning her face with his accusing glare. _Wot?!_ She mouthed at him.

_Tell. Him._

She pursed her lips, narrowed her eyes. _I will when I’m ready._

“I’m frying eggs if anyone wants them,” John volunteered. He flicked a drop of coffee from his cup, onto the frying pan; it sizzled.

Sherlock folded his arms across his chest, still staring hard at Donna.

 _Mind your business_ , she mouthed at him. Then, “None for me, but is there toast?”

John began breaking eggs into the pan. “Directly, Missus. Oh, damn. Shells in the. Ow!” Sherlock passed John a teaspoon and John continued fishing for broken bits of eggshell.

“I’ll have some of that tea, as well, Sherlock, if you don’t mind,” Donna said sweetly. Sherlock turned his back to her, arranged tea bags—a mug for Donna, a proper teacup and saucer for himself—and poured in the water. Donna fetched the milk from the fridge, sniffed it, looked woozy, returned to the table with it.

Sherlock set down her mug in front of her and returned to leaning against the counter, watching over John’s shoulder as he began tilting the frying pan this way and that, silicone spatula in one hand.

“They’re a bit scrambled, now. For you, Sherlock?”

“Pass.”

“More for me then.” The toaster popped with a hollow, springy rattle. “Sure you don’t want any, Missus? There’s plenty.”

Sherlock mouthed, _I’ll tell him myself_.

“Oh, bugger off!” Donna exploded.

“All right, all right,” John protested, “It’s only eggs, Miss Morning Sunshine.”

Sherlock bit down on a smirk; Donna rested her face in her hands momentarily and shook her head.

“Sorry,” she offered. “Didn’t sleep well last night; I had terrible heartburn, of all things.”

Sherlock shot her an accusing look behind John’s back.

John sounded mildly concerned. “Did you? I told you not to have ice cream at ten o’clock.”

“Middle-aged marrieds,” Sherlock murmured, but it was teasing, not unkind.

“We are what we are.” John shrugged.

Donna mouthed at Sherlock, _You can not tell him._

 _Watch me,_ Sherlock mouthed back.

 _I will do it. He’s my husband_. Donna pressed her open palm against her décolleté, underscoring the “my” in her assertion. Sherlock’s face flashed a half-second of hurt, but quickly turned furious.

 _Yes_ , he mouthed, leaning toward Donna for emphasis _. He’s also my. . ._

Donna waited.

Sherlock leaned back again, looking frustrated, fit to burst. _My,_ he mouthed again. He set his cup in its saucer down—hard—on the counter and spat, “John!”

“What is it, Sherlock?” John replied, turning away from the stove to look in Sherlock’s direction. His face was full of concern.

Sherlock, dressed in pyjama bottoms and a grey t-shirt that had probably once been black, strode across the kitchen toward the coat rack near the door to the hallway. “I’m going out.”

“What?” John looked puzzled, cast a questioning glance at Donna. She only shrugged. “Out where?”

Sherlock quickly shrugged on his coat, slid his bare feet into leather loafers. “Out. For a walk. To a shop.”

“All right. . .” John still looked perplexed.

“To buy something.” Sherlock adjusted the collar of his coat. “And your wife has something to tell you.” He strode through the door and started down the stairs. The sound of the front door opening, and he called back, “Congratulations.” The door shut behind him.

John looked helplessly at Donna, his face a portrait of confusion. There was a distinct smell of burning coming off the stove.

“What does that mean? ‘Congratulations’?”

Donna raised her eyebrows, glanced toward the wall calendar hanging by the fridge, then back to John.

It took a moment, but Donna could see the realization dawning across John’s face.

He smiled.


End file.
